"Ah." James turned back around. In the rearview mirror, I watched Matthew's headlights maintaining a precise interval.
Marcus joined the conversation. "How much trouble are we talking about?"
"The permanent kind. The sort that follows you across state lines and doesn't care about collateral damage." I leaned forward slightly. "Matthew's already at risk by association. You are, too, now."
Marcus nodded once and filed the information away. James drummed his fingers against his thigh.
"Resources?" Marcus asked.
"Limited. Some digital evidence, contacts who may or may not still be breathing, and whatever goodwill I can generate from people with reasons to distrust institutions." I took another sip of the coffee. "Not exactly overwhelming firepower."
"But you're not running anymore." It was a flat, emotionless observation from James. "It suggests you've identified a weakness."
"Something like that."
The forest closed around us as we gained elevation, Douglas firs crowding the roadway until the world outside consisted of green shadows and streaming rain. In the distance, Matthew's headlights cut through the gray afternoon.
For months, survival had meant isolation with no allies. Now, I was riding through the mountains with two men who'd offered assistance based on nothing more than Matthew's request.
This is the part where everything changes.
Either we'd found the resources to fight back, or we'd just expanded the target list to include people who didn't deserve what was coming. I tried not to think about whether Marcus and James had any idea what was ahead as the road curved into unknown territory.
Chapter thirteen
Matthew
The Highway Park & Ride stretched out like a graveyard for eighteen-wheelers, massive rigs lined up in neat rows under buzzing sodium lights. Marcus had positioned his SUV between two freight haulers—a Peterbilt with Montana plates and a Kenworth that looked like it had seen every mile between here and Texas.
I pulled my truck into the designated slot three spaces down. Through the windshield, I watched everything unfold exactly as Marcus had planned it an hour earlier.
His pickup sat empty now. James and Dorian transferred gear from the truck bed into canvas bags that could have held camping equipment or groceries.
We didn't exchange any words, and we didn't linger out in the open. I only heard the soft thud of truck doors closing and the crunch of gravel under boots as we converged on the SUV.
Marcus had tucked the key fob under the rear floor mat, wrapped in a sandwich wrapper that still smelled like turkey and mustard. It was his version of operational security—hide the critical stuff somewhere off your body and inside the mundane.
The whole transfer took ninety seconds. Anyone watching would assume ordinary people executing their Sunday plans.
Dorian slid into the back seat beside me, his shoulder brushing mine—contact that had gone from foreign to familiar in the ten days since he'd shown up bleeding on my doorstep. James claimed shotgun, already reaching for the dashboard vents, redirecting airflow like he was adjusting a microscope.
"Clean exits?" Marcus asked, methodically adjusting his mirrors.
"There was nothing in my wake," I confirmed.
Marcus pushed a button, and the SUV came to life with a whisper. He pulled out of the lot, taking a circuitous route through three different parking lots in the first mile. At the final one, he had us switch vehicles again. We all folded ourselves into James's Honda Civic.
Dorian's hand touched mine on the seat between us, fingers weaving together in a gesture of affection.
"ETA ten minutes." Marcus glanced at the rearview mirror.
The neighborhood where I grew up appeared ahead of us—tree-lined streets where the biggest excitement was usually our neighbors' ongoing wars with raccoons getting into their garbage. They were the streets where Michael and I had learned to ride bikes, and Marcus taught Miles how to throw a football.
I spotted a car that stood out in the familiar landscape. "Black sedan. Two houses down from the house. Same one that was at my apartment Wednesday."
The vehicle sat between Mrs. Garcia's little Toyota and Mr. Peterson's pickup with the fishing boat trailer, but everything about it screamed outsider. Fresh wash, perfect alignment, and windows tinted to government specifications. It was professional surveillance pretending to be a visiting relative.
Dorian's fingers tightened around mine. His breathing stayed even, and his expression remained relaxed.
